


The Horizon Hides You

by islacruces



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drowning, F/M, Minor Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner, POV Third Person Limited, Past Lives, Personification of Death, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islacruces/pseuds/islacruces
Summary: He has loved her completely since time immemorial. She knows this. She knows and does nothing.A Reimagining of the POTC Trilogy as a Death and Reincarnation AUft. Elizabeth Swann as Death and James Norrington as the mortal doomed to love her(Told from James Norrington's limited POV)
Relationships: James Norrington & Elizabeth Swann, James Norrington/Elizabeth Swann
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	The Horizon Hides You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LazuliBunting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazuliBunting/gifts).



> Originally just a graphic I made for Halloween (see it [here](https://lieutenantnorrington.tumblr.com/post/632629559015178240/many-live-their-lives-so-desperate-to-prolong-it) on Tumblr!), but the idea wouldn't leave my brain until I'd written it down, so here we are.
> 
> Dedicated with love to Karo, a most patient and encouraging friend and beta reader.

**_Part I: Land_ **

He digs. And digs. And digs.

She makes short work of her duty, so the graves are quickly filled. He cannot remember when he began his, but he has dedicated himself to it long enough to be able to work fast. And he has to, for they all succumb within minutes of her kiss.

When he is not preparing their beds, he watches as she puts them to sleep. Each one is lured into her trap, enticed by her beauty and the promise of her attention. And with that she lavishes them undividedly, when she takes each of their lives away. Many of them die with her name on their lips, and some even succumb smiling. Few of them weep and even fewer still beg to be spared from her kiss, for who could resist her?

He watches. And watches. And watches.

She has done her service since time immemorial. He cannot remember when he began his, but he has dedicated himself to it long enough not to question why.

There is another thing which he no longer questions: why he came to love her.

He does not want for her attention, for he is constantly by her side. He is no longer enticed by her beauty, for he has borne witness to her face for too long.

She is merciless and crafty and whichever mouth she means to devour, she devours. She is a trickster and a liar, even to herself. She is fickle, wild, untamable.

And he has loved her completely since time immemorial.

She knows this. She knows and does nothing, only asks him to dig. And he does again. And again. And again. For Death is insatiable.

One day, when he is old and bent and grey, she comes to him. She never did before. And she never would again. He knows it is time, _his_ time.

“Who will dig the graves when I’m gone?” he asks.

She smiles wistfully and says, “No one as steadfast or as selfless as you have ever been.”

“I have always loved you.”

“And I have always known. But our destinies can never be joined.”

“I understand.”

He would have wept, but his tears dried up long ago. And his heart would have ached, but the pain dulled in some distant age before. There are no tears and no pain. Only relief.

She cups his worn, wrinkled face in her smooth, cold hands. And he covers her hands with his shaking, spotted ones. But she does not kiss him. Not yet. She stares long and hard into his eyes, emerald in his youth but now milky moss. He gazes back and sees resolve and despair in hers, and in the corners, tears.

He closes his eyes as she presses her lips to his. And he does not open them again.

* * *

* * *

**_Part II: Land and Sea_ **

He meets her again when she is a child just on the cusp of adolescence and he is a young man just past it. Neither of them recognizes the other. Neither of them remembers.

He is a military man, a lieutenant with a promising career in the Royal Navy. She is the only child of a widowed lord, who has been appointed the new governor of a distant settlement in the Caribbean Sea.

He is dutiful and steadfast and selfless. She is curious and wild and untamable. But neither of them recognizes the other. Neither of them remembers.

They both board the same ship bound for the same place and spend almost the entirety of the voyage by each other’s side. Until, close to their destination, she sees a boy floating unconscious in the water. And ahead, another ship burning on the ocean. The boy is the only survivor.

She immediately grows close to the boy, all interest in the young lieutenant’s stories forgotten. He immediately sees to the preparations for their arrival, all interest in impressing the little girl with his knowledge forgotten.

When they arrive in Port Royal, they bid each other farewell on the docks and go their separate ways: he to the fort, she to her father’s grand mansion. They see each other frequently, when the governor invites him to tea or when there is a ceremony at the fort.

It is the same year after year. He joins them for tea once every week, and sometimes dinner, when he is not out at sea. She attends each one of the Navy’s parades and ceremonies. He is invited to all her balls and is always her first dance partner of the evening. She sees him and his crew off at the docks without fail during each of their tours.

As the years pass, he advances in his career at almost breakneck speed and she grows up to become a reputed beauty. They are there to witness each step taken, each hurdle passed, each goal reached. Though neither of them would call the other a friend and yet certainly not just an acquaintance, they are never not a part of each other’s lives. They are entwined.

When Elizabeth Swann turns 19, the same age he was when they first met, James Norrington realizes that he is in love with her. And she knows. She knows and does nothing.

Still neither of them recognizes the other. Neither of them remembers.

* * *

When he is sent word from the admiralty that he is to be promoted to commodore, he is beside himself with something very close to joy. Not merely because he has achieved something so astoundingly rare for someone his age, but also because it is the one thing he needs to be able to start down the path he wants most to tread. A captain could never be good enough for a governor’s daughter. But a commodore is another matter. Now, he is finally worthy of such a match.

He feels as though he could cry.

But destiny loves to laugh and at that moment, it wants to laugh at James Norrington.

She is never given the opportunity to answer his proposal. And now, nearly a fortnight since the Royal Navy has been searching for her and the band of pirates that kidnapped her, he fears that she never would. They have nothing to go on save the word of drunkards who claim to have seen his stolen ship moor at Tortuga and pick up a crew before setting off again to god only knows where.

He avoids sleep or any measure of rest during their hunt, for every moment when he is left alone with his thoughts and his dreams, he sees her lifeless body floating in the sea. In moments when he has no other choice but to allow these thoughts, he feels his entire body run cold. If the next he sees of her is her corpse, he knows he would not survive long after. He imagines asking death to claim his as well. Then she would not have to face what lay beyond life alone. Even as a child, she had always been so lonely. He would not allow her the same fate.

“ _Commodore!_ ” one of his topmen yells, and points at a thin smoke signal in the horizon.

It is not much to go on, but it gives him hope.

The signal grows larger and larger and they see that it is coming from a tiny island. Two people stand on the shore, waving their arms at them. When the longboat with the rescue party returns, he peers down as it is hauled up and sees her face. Sun-kissed and soot-stained. But alive.

He feels as though he could cry.

He sees how the men’s eyes linger for a split-second at the sight of her wearing almost nothing. He hears their voices in his head, telling him that she has lost everything a woman could own. That their fates have reversed. That she must prove herself worthy of _him_ now.

He does not care if her virtue is lost. Only that she would never be hurt again.

Both the governor and his daughter try to fight over him: the former trying to convince him to return to Port Royal, the latter begging him to pursue the pirates who had marooned her. To save the boy whom they had already saved once before. William Turner.

“Please do this for me,” she entreats. “As a wedding gift.”

He loves her more than anything. More than his crew, more than his ships, more than his commission, more than his life. And she knows. She knows.

He feels as though he could cry.

As the ship sets sail to rescue the boy, he asks for a moment of her time.

“I’m concerned that your answer was perhaps… less than sincere,” he says. Even as a child, she had never been given what she truly wanted. He would not allow her the same fate.

“I would not give my word lightly,” she claims.

“I understand.” There is a familiarity to it, as though he has said those words to her a thousand lifetimes ago.

“But is it so wrong that I should want it given unconditionally?” he asks.

She denies. And denies. And denies.

But he can hear the truth behind the lies that escape her mouth. And he allows himself to believe them all anyway. He allows himself the illusion that he could be worthy of her.

And he feels his heart cleave soundly into two, with only a string of flesh binding the pieces together, even as he smiles.

Another fortnight later and the illusion is fully shattered. He knew from the beginning that it would. She chooses the boy, declares her choice for all the world to see and hear.

But she would not be alone any longer, and she would get what her heart truly desires. Everything that he wanted to give to her. That brought him joy.

He smiles and wishes her the best of luck, as he feels the string of flesh break off completely.

He allows their escaped fugitive a day’s head start. He does not tell another soul that it is also a day’s respite for himself.

He and his officers stay at the fort until almost midnight, planning out every part of their mission. He declines their invitation to dinner and returns to his quarters instead.

He shuts the door, leans back against it, and weeps.

* * *

James Norrington throws himself into his work. His only remaining ship the _Dauntless_ and her crew become his life. He takes it upon himself to lead them and to look after them so thoroughly that he barely has time to think of anything else. He avoids sleep, avoids idleness, avoids everything that can distract him from the thing he has turned into his lifeline: finally catching Jack Sparrow. And for nigh on five months he toils at this endeavor.

He lives for his mission. For his reputation. For his vengeance.

After a week of being becalmed on the Mediterranean, just a few leagues off the coast of Tripoli, they find themselves once again on the move, a harsh wind on their tail. They sail along the coastline, with all on board constantly peering through their spyglasses at as many points in the horizon as they can possible find. Yet there is no sign of the _Black Pearl_.

He closes his eyes and bows his head, attempting to steel himself. Then he feels a drop of rain splash onto his nape. By the time he looks up again, the rain is beating down on them so loudly that he is unable to hear what the helmsman behind him has just said.

The storm rages for three days and three nights, only stopping for a few minutes every day before once again leaving their fate to the whims of the sea. He is grateful that none of them has fallen overboard.

On the fourth day, a calm sets upon them, the eye of the hurricane moving northward and further out into open water. But it sets him even more on edge.

A seaman stationed atop the mainmast yells down at him and points directly northward.

“ _Commodore, it’s her!_ ”

He brings his spyglass to his eye. There, in the distance making straight for the hurricane, are black sails. He cannot let her escape, not when this is the first time in nearly a fortnight since they have seen her. Not when they are this close.

“ _Hard to port!_ ” he bellows.

They advance on the _Pearl_ , and closer into the eye. Without warning, a torrential downpour rains down on them, lashing against their backs like a hundred whips.

A large wave suddenly crests ahead, and the black ship all but disappears from view behind a sea of clouds.

He shakes. Shakes so much that he grabs onto a rope tied to the mizzen to steady himself. But it is not from the cold. It comes from within.

They are so close. _This_ close.

In the grey horizon before him, he swears he can already see Sparrow’s face. He can already see the noose tied around the pirate’s neck. He can already see the floor drop from under his feet.

“ _Commodore, we’re to sail into it?!_ ” asks his first lieutenant beside him.

“Keep on,” he replies. "Dead ahead."

Within minutes, the waves engulf them. And she founders. The last thing he sees above the surface is the foremast being torn off the deck. And the last thing he sees as the ship pulls them all down to the depths are the terrified faces of his crew as the water rushes into their lungs and, in a matter of seconds, their eyes staring back at him lifelessly.

* * *

“Give me the strongest one you’ve got.”

The barkeep looks him up and down, suspiciously eyeing the bedraggled uniform and the wig in his hand. The man notices how tightly he clutches onto the dirtied horsehair and its tattered ribbon, how his knuckles threaten to burst from under his skin.

“No fine brandies for fine gents in these parts,” the barkeep answers.

“I don’t see any fine gentlemen here,” he practically spits out. “ _A pint._ ”

He grabs the tankard, spilling some of it on his boots, and slams the penny onto the counter before stalking off to a vacant table in the corner.

The first gulp does not sear his throat the way he was hoping it would. In fact, it tastes too sweet. The second is even worse. The third time he picks up the tankard, he downs it all just to be done with it. His throat itches, his head spins, his chest burns.

When he woke up that morning, he decided to try the rum in every tavern in Tortuga just for the hell of it, setting aside an entire shilling for his venture that day. He is determined to spend every last penny of it before midnight.

It has been four months since the hurricane. Three months since he finally arrived in Portsmouth after being hauled aboard by a Greek merchantman in the middle of the Mediterranean, taken to Venice, and carried on all manner of carriages and wagons across Italy and France before managing to beg his way onto a ship from Nantes to the Royal Navy Dockyard. Three months since he resigned his commission, but not before being humiliated in front of the admiralty, including his own father. Three months since he was forced to leave his sword with the Navy.

It had been a gift from the governor. He wanted to tell them that. It had been a gift.

But he left it all the same.

Still, it was not a total loss. They allowed him the earnings he had yet to collect during his hunt for Sparrow. After all, it was his right. And it was more than enough to buy passage back to the Caribbean.

The captain of the merchant ship told him that they would land in Port Royal. But he could not stay there. Not when everyone he knew in his old life still dwelt there. Not when _she_ was there.

He never left the docks when the ship arrived. Instead he found his way onto another merchantman bound for Tortuga. No one knew him there. At least, not until now.

It has been a month since James Norrington made the piss-flooded alleyways and vomit-caked plaza of Tortuga his home. He refuses to seek better accommodations and better circumstances.

This is what he deserves. Maybe he could die here too.

“Cheers to that,” he whispers into his sixth pint, this time in the _Faithful Bride_. The stench in this tavern is even fouler than in the ones before, making him wonder if the rum had been pissed on or if they could no longer be rid of the smell on their walls. But at least there’s a band. He decides that this is one of the finer establishments on the island.

He performs a partner-less sarabande across the floor, tripping as he does so, before heading out to the next tavern. He still has sixpence, and it is barely past midday. He has a good feeling that this mission will be a successful one.

He runs, or moves as close to a run as he is able to, towards the well in the middle of the plaza and retches into it. When the sick plops into the water and echoes back up to him, he laughs.

The days and nights all blend into one another. And as he is barely vigilant enough to even notice if it is dark or light out, he stops caring. Once he drinks enough, everything goes dark anyway. He wishes it would remain dark forever. He curses himself whenever he opens his eyes and sees that he is still there among the living.

The stench becomes his neighbour. The bottom of an empty bottle becomes his best friend.

He lives for rum. For the ringing in his ears. For the burning on his tongue. For the world spinning in front of him as he downs his eighth – or is it ninth – tankard of the day.

On most days, he is too far gone to dream. But when he dozes off without having had enough to drink, he sees them. His crew. Their hands reaching up, desperately trying to make it to the surface. Their eyes panicked and anguished. Until their hands stop moving and their eyes freeze, fixed on the surface that they will never reach.

He sees Sparrow too, grinning at him with blackened and golden teeth. He hears the pirate’s voice over and over in his head, only three words that burn themselves into his skull. Each time is more scorching than the last.

_“Thank you, Commodore!”_

_“Thank you, Commodore!”_

_“THANK YOU, COMMODORE!”_

He sees his father. And he sees the governor. One of them he had failed for being alive, the other for failing to live. His father’s cruel eyes bore into him, the governor lowers his as if he cannot even bear to look at the disgrace that he has become.

And he sees her. Most of all, her. Sometimes she is a child, standing beside him on the quarterdeck of the ship that he lost. Sometimes she is a young woman, falling a hundred feet from a parapet because he was too consumed by his own nervousness to even look at her. And sometimes, she is both his Elizabeth and a complete stranger altogether.

In those dreams, she looks at him with eyes colder and darker than any he has ever seen in his life. Colder and darker than even the abyss. She watches him as he digs. And digs. And digs. And when she takes his face in her hands and his mouth in hers, he expires. And when he falls, he falls into the grave that she made him dig. But the grave has no end and he never lands on the cold, dark earth. He only falls. And falls. And falls.

One day – or evening – after what he feels has been a lifetime since he came to Tortuga, he imagines seeing a face that has been mocking him in his dreams.

“ _Thank you, Commodore!_ ” he hears. But the face does not say those words. The face is serious, focused, mouthing something like a wish.

He blinks a few times and sees that the face is attached to a head and the head attached to a body and it is a living, breathing person. Not a face in a dream.

Jack Sparrow.

“How we going?” he asks the man seated at the next table over.

He shifts his focus with some difficulty and realizes that the pirate is talking to Joshamee Gibbs. Disgraced, just like him. Perhaps he would turn into him in a few years. Perhaps he should ask for some advice.

He steps forward.

“Including those four? That gives us… _four_ ,” Gibbs replies, then turns to look up at him.

There is no recognition in the old man’s eyes, at least as far as he can tell. But he cannot see very clearly. Except for the bottle of rum in front of Gibbs. It looks like it’s begging to be drunk.

Gibbs asks for his story. Halfway through his tale, the bottle of rum practically shouts at him and he grabs it and takes a swig.

“Commodore?” asks the old man.

He snaps.

“ _No, not anymore! Weren’t you listening?!_ ”

The rest is a blur. He asks to join their crew - why in the blazes would he join that wretch's crew? - he flips the table in front of Gibbs but does not remember why – he whips out his pistol and takes aim at Sparrow, hiding behind some tree – he wonders when they ever managed to put a tree inside the _Faithful Bride_ – he is pleased with himself that his aim isn’t half bad – but has he lost all skill with a blade? - Sparrow says he's hired - finally, a new commission - but the prospect of slicing the man's face off is too enticing - he pulls out the rusted cutlass from his scabbard – or shoots at Sparrow – or the air. He can’t remember.

He does not realize when the tavern turned into a battlefield. But here he is right in the middle of it. And he’s ready to cut down some men. If only they would line up first. He cannot see them clearly with so many of them scattered around him.

“Form an orderly line and I’ll have you all one by one!” he yells.

He hears the shattering of glass next to his ear. A waste of good rum.

Then all is dark.

When he comes to, he can taste mud and shit and a hint of piss in his mouth. All familiar by now. They are nothing more than water.

Someone is trying to haul him up. Firm but gentle hands.

He turns as much as he is able to and sees her. It is Death.

So she has come to take him at last.

 _Do it_ , he pleads. He never had the courage to do it himself.

“James Norrington,” she says. “What has the world done to you?”

His eyes clear and he realizes that it is not Death but a living, breathing person. Her eyes are warm and sad. And familiar. He begins to recognize the eyebrows, the nose, the lips, the jaw. He spent eight years with that face. That face was always in the crowd when he looked back from the _Interceptor_ as they sailed away. That face laughed as they danced at her balls. That face had fear etched on it when Sparrow had a pistol at her temple. That face smiled at him in thanks when he wished her the best of luck.

Elizabeth.

He has to be dreaming. But he is not.

She tries to pull him up again and, with struggle, he gets on his knees and truly looks at her for the first time. How she has changed. He almost laughs. So has he.

What _has_ the world done to him?

“Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

* * *

He has been on his knees for hours on end, swabbing the deck with the pathetic remains of his horsehair wig right under the blazing sun. It is the longest he has ever gone without a drink. He can already feel his fingers shaking. If he doesn’t find a bottle soon after his watch ends, he thinks he might faint.

Even their voyage to god knows where is ridiculous beyond belief. Sparrow had told them all after they had weighed anchor that they are to seek out the heart of Davy Jones. An actual beating heart hidden away in some chest in some secret place. He scoffed all throughout Sparrow’s little speech. This has to be even worse than undead pirates. It is nothing more than a treasure hunt.

Across the quarterdeck, Elizabeth, Sparrow and Gibbs are inspecting some documents. His eyes narrow, trying to make them out. His heart races when it dawns on him. Letters of marque. There is no doubt about it.

The wind drowns out most of what they are saying. But he hears enough of what really matters.

“Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company – ”

“He wants the chest – ”

“If they controls the chest, they controls the sea – ”

His vision is now the clearest it has ever been. And his hearing even better.

“ – full pardon. Commission as a privateer on behalf of England and the East India Trading Company – ”

To hell with rum. They could toss all of what they had of it overboard and he wouldn’t complain. But he will get those letters of marque. He will do anything to get his hands on them.

He needs to lie. To her. To all of them. To himself.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Sparrow stuffs the letters into his coat.

If he is to be as vigilant as possible, he cannot take another drop of alcohol. Even if it necessitates the shaking in his hands, the pounding in his head, the pain between his eyes. It will all be worth it if it means getting his own ship again. Getting a new commission. Getting his life back. He can already see his future right before his eyes.

James Norrington knows that he is not accustomed to lying. Only to excluding parts of the truth. But he is severely out of practice. Perhaps he should work on it now.

When his watch is over, he lingers on the quarterdeck and sees her looking over the gunwale. He remembers how she always did that on the _Dauntless_ all those years ago, how worried he was that she would fall. Now the only thing he is worried about is if she doesn’t fall for his lies.

She is trying and very clearly failing to hide the smile that can’t seem to leave her face. No doubt she’s thinking about Sparrow. Anyone could see how shamelessly they have been flirting and teasing one another since they left Tortuga. It is as if her blacksmith had never even existed. The poor blighter. He would have felt sorry for him, but he is not feeling particularly gracious that day.

He sighs inwardly. Even as a child, she had always been such a fickle little thing. And she is still enamored by pirates, even after all the things they did to her, after all the things she has seen them do.

“It’s a curious thing,” he says as he stands beside her and leans back against the gunwale. “There was a time when I would have given anything for you to look like that while thinking about me.”

He congratulates himself. Even he would have believed what he’d just said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says far too quickly, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, I think you do,” he replies. If she is to be this shameless, then he has no reason not to be as well. He is no longer a gentleman, nor has anything left that a gentleman can't afford to lose. And he never stood a chance anyway.

The thought still bothers him. Like a scab he must resist picking at. But it no longer stings.

She puts up a shoddy defense against him, and he laughs at her. The battle is lost before it has even properly begun. She could do so much better, and he tells her that with his eyes alone as he leaves her all flustered and confused.

He likes this. Maybe a bit too much. Finally, he is gaining the upper hand. It’s about time.

She is smitten by the pirate, by everything that Sparrow is and she is not. And he knows. He knows.

When he climbs down to the lower decks, he wills all thoughts of her out of his head. The letters of marque are in Sparrow’s coat pocket. He cannot let them out of his sight.

They arrive more than a week later on an island he has never seen before. He makes sure to volunteer as a digger for the landing party and Sparrow, in his enthusiasm to see his old rival be forced to do his bidding, is more than willing to oblige.

They leave the short, loud one and the tall one with the wooden eye to guard the longboat. He watches Sparrow out of the corner of his eye as the man discards his coat – and the letters with it – and leaves it behind along with, inexplicably, a jar of dirt. Once he secures the chest, he needs to fight off those two lackeys and take the letters. He has no concrete plan as yet, but he still has time. The walk to their heading is long. It is the perfect opportunity to mull over every possible outcome of this venture and every possible action he must take.

_Take the chest. Take the letters. Take them both to Beckett._

_Take the chest. Take the letters. Take them both to Beckett._

He brands these words into his brain again and again. He times each sentence with every push of the shovel as he digs. It is almost like a song by the time he hits something hard under the sand.

As they haul it up, he starts to doubt his plan. He cannot possible carry such a large chest and manage to fight them all off at the same time. He is relieved when he realizes that the real chest is much smaller. It is light and small enough to be carried under one arm. This plan may yet work.

But William Turner arrives. Because of course he would. And he has to watch Elizabeth kiss the man. Because of course she would.

He tries to will all thoughts of her out of his head. He is not there for her. He is there for himself. For once. He tries to focus, but he is failing, and failing fast.

He was wrong. It's not a scab, it's a gaping wound that he allowed to fester. And it stings.

Within moments, each of them has a sword pointed at another’s throat, Elizabeth staring at them in shock. He notices how her eyes linger on him longer than the others, as if his actions are the most shocking of them all.

This is the man he is now. Or perhaps this is the man that he always was, under the uniform and the medals and the powdered wig. Now he is only covered in mud and shit and piss. He almost laughs at the thought that filth is just the thing to reveal hard truths.

Hell, there is no use lying about anything now. Might as well reveal his loyalties. And he does.

“Ah, the dark side of ambition,” Sparrow says.

“I prefer to see it as the promise of redemption.” And it will be. All of them be damned. Even her.

He sits alone in the brig of an East India Trading Company ship a week later. It is the cleanest place he has seen in months, and he spreads the filth and grime that lingers on him everywhere he sits on the painted white floor. They had found him easily enough as he floated aimlessly on a piece of driftwood; their ships had been prowling the region, looking for any sign of the _Pearl_.

What all but guaranteed his passage were the letters of marque which he pulled out from his coat. He held them aloft as if they were the sword the governor had given him.

But the heart he keeps hidden from them all. And in exchange, it keeps him company. The heartbeat is deafening to his ears, as if it wants to join in on the incessant pounding in his head that has never left him since he bid farewell to Tortuga.

He brought tremors with him from Tortuga as well. Even on the _Pearl_ , he would lie awake in his hammock, shaking too much to be able to doze off. It is no different aboard this ship. Because he never sleeps, he never dreams. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling and lets his thoughts wander as he wraps his arms around his body, hoping that it would make the shaking stop, even though it never does.

_“You’re mad!”_

He hears her voice over and over in his head, sees the indignation on her face as he tells her to leave him behind. She had never cared that much for him before. It was a shame. The more he lied to her, the more she held him dear. He laughs without mirth, and the blasted heart laughs with him.

She will never forgive him now. Not after what he’s about to do.

When they arrive in Port Royal, he is taken directly to Beckett, who offers him more than he ever expected he would get.

The man opens the box next to his desk. When he sees what is inside, his hands shake. But he knows that it is not because of the lack of rum.

It had been a gift. And he never imagined that he would see it again.

“I think a promotion is due as well,” says Beckett. “Do you agree, Admiral Norrington?”

He is too shocked to respond. He would have been satisfied with all that the letters had promised. He would never have asked for anything more.

As he picks up his sword, it is all he can do not to weep. But there is a pressing matter at hand. His tears, as they always have, can wait.

He swings the sword down in one fluid motion and aims it at the beating heart on Beckett’s desk. It is here. The promise of his redemption.

“Give the order, sir.”

One move, and he will be worthy of all the rewards that are promised to him. One move, and he can set things right again. All he needs to do is plunge the blade and it is finished.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Beckett replies in a voice that makes his entire body run cold. “That would be terribly imprudent.”

He looks back at the man and sees his father’s eyes boring into him, the governor refusing to even look at him, the men that he had lost jeering at him, Elizabeth with her eyes full of disgust staring at him. He realizes that he should never have lied to her, that he should have stayed.

The price for the letters of marque was not the heart after all, but his own soul.

Suddenly, he misses the puddle in Tortuga’s plaza that he once called his bed.

* * *

He buttons up his waistcoat and puts on his jacket and tricorn, then peers into the mirror nailed to the wall of his cabin. His face is clean-shaven and smooth, his skin is clear and almost pink, his uniform is perfect and pristine without even a single crease.

But he has never felt filthier in his entire life. Even the pathetic creature that he once was only a few months ago, the one who slept against a pillow of his own vomit, felt cleaner than the man he is now.

Every day, he wonders where she and her companions are. Not long after his promotion, he overheard Beckett and his lackey Mercer talking about how the _Pearl_ was devoured by Jones’ monstrous pet, along with her captain. They did not mention anything about Elizabeth. He decided that that was good news.

Every day, when he and his men capture yet another pirate ship, he hopes upon hope that she is not there for him to clap in irons. And she never is. He decides that that is good news.

Every night, he lies awake, too distracted by his own tremors and the pounding in his head to fall asleep.

Every night, he stares up at the ceiling and sees her face. Elizabeth’s. And that other face with the cold, dark eyes. Not truly her face and yet still her all the same. That other face whose lips took the life out of him. Death’s.

He realizes that day as he stares at himself in the mirror that he does not care if she suddenly comes along and blesses him with a kiss. She should have done a long time ago.

He had expected to die then, when he led his crew to their deaths in that hurricane. But he did not.

He had expected to die then, when he drank himself senseless in the alleyways of Tortuga. But he did not.

He does not die. In fact, he lives on and on and on. Far longer than he should have ever been allowed to, for all the mistakes that he keeps making. For the price that he made the seas pay, that he continues to make them pay, just for the life that he had wanted back.

And he was given it. He was given a uniform and ships and money and a rank only men twice his age ever achieve. He was given everything.

He stares at himself in the mirror and sees an empty shell staring back. Someone who was given everything and still has nothing.

That day would be the start of his new assignment: he is to serve as the commanding officer of the _Flying Dutchman_ herself. That was what Beckett had told him. But in truth, he will do nothing more than open and close that damned chest and have his men point their guns at it to scare Jones. He does not bother hiding the scoff that escapes him as he walks through the passageways of the _Endeavour_ on the way to the longboats.

On the quarterdeck, he sees the governor waiting for him. Another one who has become a shell of who he was. But he knows better than to think that this man would be capable of doing the things he has done.

“Are you to join us aboard, Governor?”

The old man only has the chance to look at him with haunted eyes before Mercer arrives and tells them to go down and board the longboat.

Not once since his return to Port Royal did he ever get the chance to talk to the governor properly. Nothing more than cursory nods and empty greetings. Beckett never allows them to be left alone for more than a few seconds.

Two days into his new post as the guard standing over the chest, he hears a commotion behind him and sees the governor rush past him. His face covered in tears, the old man pulls out a bayonet from one of the soldier’s rifles and makes to stab the heart.

“ _Governor!_ ” he yells, grabbing the man’s wrists before he can make another move.

“I – is it true?” the governor stammers. “She’s dead. Elizabeth is dead.”

He feels his body run cold, then practically shouts at his men to get out.

They are finally alone… until they are not. Jones is at the doorway. Damn him.

Without giving it a second thought, he pulls out his pistol and aims it at the abomination.

“ _Stay back! I will kill you!_ ” the governor shouts.

“And are you prepared for what comes after?” Jones asks. He tells them of the curse he placed on his own heart, of the sacrifice one must pay to kill him. It is steep. Surely not one person alive would willingly pay it.

Beckett and his man arrive, telling them that Elizabeth was seen in Singapore. He does not know what to believe anymore. Only that he cannot bear to see the governor in this state.

“There is still hope,” he whispers, desperately trying to relay a message with his eyes alone.

_I will find her._

If she would let him. This he keeps to himself.

But when the governor practically shoves him away and refuses to meet his eyes, he knows right there and then that he has lost him. He is now nothing more than another mindless tool of the East India Trading Company. It happens exactly as he had seen it countless times in his dreams.

He knows he deserves it. That does not make it hurt any less.

As the governor strides out, he tells Beckett, “Our association has ended.”

He feels in his gut that the governor meant it for him too.

At dusk, as he stands on the forecastle (or what remains of it under the barnacles that have grown all over it), he catches a glimpse of the governor climbing down to a longboat, Mercer close behind him.

A figure ambles in his direction and comes to a halt beside him. Beckett.

He turns away, refusing to look at the man.

“Governor Swann is to return to England,” Beckett explains. “I have arranged passage for him on one of our ships.”

At least the little devil allowed him that.

“I trust you can keep silent on the matter regarding the chest.”

He grunts.

“And try not to misbehave while there is no one here to keep an eye on you, Admiral.”

Beckett walks off, following the others down to the longboats, without waiting for his response. In any case, he has no other answer to give except for a glare.

Days later, they receive a signal to pursue the _Empress_ , the pirate lord Sao Feng’s flagship. It does not take long for the _Dutchman_ to find her prey. They make short work of their mission. The ship is badly damaged within minutes, and her crew are almost all apprehended on the quarterdeck in only a few more.

It is when he sees her at the top of the stairs with a bayonet across her neck that he stops in his tracks.

“Elizabeth,” he says, breathless. For a moment, all the sounds of battle, all the lifeless bodies strewn across the deck, all the smoke and the smell of blood disappear before him.

“James… _James!_ ”

He can almost hear relief in her voice as she pries the soldier’s hands off of her and dashes down the stairs. She remembers partway that he is the reason for all her grief and instead approaches him like she would a snake.

But he ignores this and traps her in an embrace.

“Thank God you’re alive!” he says, hearing his own voice shaking.

He had convinced himself that the disbelief on her face as they stood cornered on the shores of Isla Cruces would be the last he would ever see of her. He feels as though he could cry.

“Your father will be overjoyed to know you’re safe.”

“My father’s dead.”

He already knows it is true. He knew from the moment Beckett left him aboard the _Dutchman_.

“No, that can’t be true,” he insists, and it is more to himself than anything. “He returned to England.”

“Did Lord Beckett tell you that?”

She squarely rejects everything he offers her, the safety he can provide for her, the explanations.

“I swear, I did not know,” he pleads.

“Know what? Which side you chose?” she asks. Her voice is venomous.

In the end, she shoves his hand away just as her father did. Unlike the governor, she stares straight at him, the disgust clearly written across her features. He had seen this phantom face before, at the very moment he came to the realization that he had sold his soul for a letter of marque.

He knows he deserves it. That does not make it hurt any less.

He does not remember returning to his quarters after that. He is too distracted by the flurry of thoughts, the rush of information flying through his mind. Reeling, he practically falls onto the bed as soon as he shuts the door.

Of course he knew that Mercer killed the governor. Only a fool would have failed to see it. But he has always known how much of a fool he is. Only a fool like him could have made every single mistake he has ever made. Only a fool like him could have killed that many people. And for what? His pride? His honor? A worthless uniform and an equally worthless sword?

He was given everything and still has nothing. He deserves nothing. Not even his little puddle in Tortuga.

It is too late to ask for her forgiveness. She would never accept a single apology from him. And he does not expect her to, for he deserves none.

But he cannot let Beckett get his hands on her. He cannot let her be killed.

He paces up and down in his cabin for hours on end, thinking of every possible action he could take, every possible outcome that could arise. All of them end in her freedom… and in his death.

But it’s about time. He has lived long enough. And he has been waiting for her kiss for far too long.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Her face is guarded, but the anger has gone. She should not have lost it so quickly.

“Choosing a side,” he says.

He leads them up to the next deck. He does not allow himself to breathe easily, even though the only crew members on that deck are fast asleep in their hammocks.

Just two more turns left.

They reach the entry port. It is as good as sealed for all the years that it has never been opened, but they manage to push the port outward as quietly as they can.

“Make aft,” he whispers to them. “The _Empress_ is towed. You can climb down the line from the balcony behind my cabin.”

And to her, he says, “I will meet you there.”

She does not respond, not even with a nod. She only stares at him.

When the last of the crew have made it out, he shuts the port and walks to the admiral’s cabin, taking care not to hasten his steps more than usual. His heart pounds furiously that he feels it will burst from his chest. He only hopes no one is there to hear it.

He does not allow himself to breathe easily, even when he makes it back to his quarters without encountering another soul.

When he steps out onto the balcony, he sees her crew waiting for him along the starboard hull. Once he makes sure that there is no one on the captain’s balcony above his, he ushers them along as they climb down one by one to the _Empress_.

Not many crew were left alive during the attack, but he feels as though there are hundreds of them. He is sure that his heartbeat has already woken some of Jones’ men by now.

Finally, she arrives. Still guarded. And unforgiving.

“I had nothing to do with your father’s death,” he says. “But that does not absolve me of my other sins.”

And how many those sins were. Even years ago, when she fell from that parapet because he was too consumed by his own nervousness to even look at her. He is no longer that man. Instead he became something far worse. But if he could only do this one thing for her…

Suddenly, she says something that he refuses to believe he heard. She couldn’t have said it. But she persists.

“James, come with me.”

When he looks into her eyes, he sees resolve and despair, and in the corners, tears. And above all else, an expression which he has never seen on her face before.

It is the same expression he must have had for years whenever he looked at her. Love.

It is everything he ever wanted. The _only_ thing that truly matters. And it is right here, at his very fingertips.

Fantasies flash before his eyes. Of them leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against the gunwale of the _Pearl_ , of him relentlessly teasing her, and of her letting him. Of them sharing a look as they listen to yet another ridiculous argument between the short, loud one and the tall one with the wooden eye. Of them looking into each other’s eyes wordlessly and understanding everything the other does not say. Of them existing with no walls, no barriers, nothing at all between them.

Only these are not fantasies at all. They happened. They were real.

He had been wrong. He did not have the upper hand. They were at a draw. They were equals. Even for the briefest moment.

He should never have lied to her. He should never have left.

James Norrington makes his choice.

“ _Who goes there?!_ ” a voice shouts from above.

He pulls her over to stand behind him and sees Bill Turner up on the captain’s balcony. He has seen them.

“Go. I will follow.” He prays that for once she will listen to him. He cannot see her be killed, he will not.

“You’re lying,” she says.

When did she learn to read him so well?

He would have wept, but his tears dried up long ago. There are no tears in his eyes. Only gratefulness in his heart.

He turns to face her and gazes without hesitation into her eyes. The man that he was then never could.

“Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth. But never joined.”

She had told him this aeons ago. He has always known. But still, he is grateful beyond belief. Grateful for the time he has been given until now. Grateful that she was born in his lifetime. Grateful that he was allowed to love her, and be loved by her in return, no matter how briefly.

_Goodbye, Elizabeth._

He leans down and presses his lips to hers, sealing his fate.

“Go now,” he whispers into her mouth and turns away. His task is not yet accomplished. There is still one more soul to save, the one that matters to him most.

He hears rather than sees her start her descent.

Turner arrives before she is even halfway across the line. He knows the man will not listen to him.

“ _All hands, prisoner escape!_ ” Turner bellows.

He hears her scream his name and turns to see that she is trying to climb back up. He cannot let her do this, he will not.

He aims his pistol at the line and shoots.

When he turns back, he feels the blade pierce his heart. The cut had been cleaner, when she had broken it years ago. It had been so much more painful then. But this would be temporary. This would only be a moment.

He hears her voice again, still screaming his name, as he falls.

He does not know how much time has passed before he realizes that Jones is standing over him. He hopes, enough time that the _Empress_ has now disappeared into the night, well beyond the _Dutchman_ ’s reach.

“James Norrington, do you fear death?” the captain asks. A tempting offer with a steep price that many a sailor has fallen prey to.

But he does not fear Death. He loves her.

With his last strength, he stabs Jones. It is useless, but it is answer enough.

His eyes cloud over as he looks back at Jones’ eyes. But instead he sees hers, filled with resolve and despair, and in the corners, tears.

_I’m sorry, Elizabeth. For all the times that I’ve caused you pain._

He does not close his eyes, even as he no longer sees.

* * *

He sits alone on a longboat far too large for him in the middle of a thick fog. There are no oars to row with, yet the boat moves along the water regardless. He can see the wind blowing through the tassels on his epaulets, but he cannot feel it on his face. He cannot smell the salt in the air, cannot feel the spray of the sea.

James Norrington knows he is dead.

“ _Haul him aboard!_ ” a voice shouts. It is familiar to him, but he cannot place it.

A ship appears through the fog. She is familiar to him, but he cannot place it.

Sailors throw down lines at him, and he takes one without question and begins to climb. One of them extends a hand, and he takes it as he reaches the quarterdeck.

When he looks up to see the person’s face, he recognizes it. William Turner. He sees the long red scar along Turner’s exposed chest, right over where his heart should be.

When he takes a good look across the deck, he recognizes it. The _Dutchman_. But there are no barnacles. There is only wood.

So Turner paid the price. Good man. Better than he ever was.

“Are you dead?” he asks Turner.

“In a manner of speaking,” the man replies with a nod. After a moment, as though thinking hard of what to say, Turner continues, “I didn’t know you were.”

“Is she alive?” he asks. He does not need to specify who.

“Yes, she is.”

He sighs. It had all been worth it.

Turner looks at him with a perplexed expression in his eyes.

“James Norrington,” he says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s your story?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Your comments are greatly appreciated.


End file.
